It was a small packet, less than two inches square and not very thick, wrapped in white fabric and tied with a bit of string.

The others gathered round, gazing curiously at the object and asking questions. I began plucking at the string, which was tightly knotted. Emerson snatched the packet from my hand.

“Come over here,” he said, and led the way to a shady spot under an orange tree.

“Someone slipped it into my pocket,” I replied, in answer to Nefret. “Just now. Emerson, be careful. It may contain a sharp blade, or a poisonous insect, or-”

“Balderdash,” said Emerson. Opening his pocketknife, he cut through the string, which he handed to David. After returning the knife to his trouser pocket, he unwrapped the folds of cloth, his big brown hands moving with the delicacy he employed with fragile artifacts. At last the contents lay exposed.

“It appears to be a piece of paper,” said Emerson. “Folded and refolded.”

“A message,” Nefret exclaimed, reaching for it. “Perhaps it’s from Ramses.”

Emerson pushed her hand away. “Be careful. It may contain a sharp blade or poisonous insect.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, open it,” I said irritably.

We crowded round Emerson, heads together, as he unfolded the paper. I recognized the handwriting at once. Since Ramses’s handwriting is virtually indecipherable, it took us some time to make out all the words.

“Have been delayed. Will explain when I see you. Proceed to Jerusalem and sit tight. Will meet you there.”

“Confound the boy,” I exclaimed. “What is he up to now?”

Emerson refolded the note and put it in his pocket, along with the length of string and piece of cloth.

“Let us go on,” he said. “We need to discuss this.”

The eating establishment Selim had found was on the outskirts of the bazaar. Emerson was pleased to learn that alcoholic beverages were available, since as Selim informed us, the place was patronized not only by locals but by the more adventuresome brand of tourists. There weren’t many of the latter, only a young couple in one corner bent over a guidebook. The proprietor greeted us in person, bowing repeatedly, and showed us to a table.

After Emerson had ordered a glass of beer and we had been proudly presented with actual written menus, Nefret burst out, “Let me see that again, Professor.”

We passed the note round. “Perhaps,” said David, “it is not from Ramses.”

“It is his handwriting,” I said. “And the paper appears to be a page torn from one of his notebooks.”

Emerson took out his pipe. “He wrote it. But he may have been under duress. Curse it,” he added, “we need more light. It is dark in here.”

A blue haze of smoke filled the low-ceilinged room. Upon being summoned, the proprietor produced a candle which he placed in the center of the table. It didn’t help a great deal, nor did the smoke from Emerson’s pipe, at which he was puffing furiously.

“If he was a prisoner,” David said, in response to Emerson’s comment, “he gives no indication of it.” He held the paper close to the candle flame. “No cryptic hieroglyphs, no code message.”

“He could hardly do that if the person who dictated the note was standing over him,” I said. “But let us not wander off into wild avenues of theory. We have no reason to believe he was under duress when he wrote this. It is not unlike Ramses to do something so thoughtless and inconsiderate.”

“If he is a prisoner,” said Daoud, who had been thinking it over, “we must find him.”

“Very good, Daoud,” said Selim, giving his uncle a kindly look. “Where shall we start looking?”

“Oh dear,” I said with a sigh. “Let us consider this matter logically. There are two possibilities. Either Ramses is a prisoner and wrote this at the dictation of his captor, or he has come across something that roused his insatiable curiosity and is pursuing the matter. If we assume that the first alternative is correct, our obvious course is to go to Samaria. He was last seen there, or rather, that is the place where he was last known to be.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson, chewing on the stem of his pipe. “I can’t see that we have any choice, Peabody. We must go to Samaria, interrogate-er-question Reisner, and trace Ramses’s subsequent movements.”

“I see several objections to that plan,” I said.

“I am not at all surprised that you do. Well?”

“Tracing his movements might mean delaying our arrival in Jerusalem for a considerable period of time, in which case Morley may already have made mischief. Furthermore, if Ramses is off on some quest of his own, our attempts to find him could endanger him or the quest itself. He says-let me see the note again-yes, he says, ‘Sit tight.’ Does not that imply he wants to be left to his own devices?”

“That wouldn’t be out of character,” David admitted. “But what could he possibly have found to set him off? An illegal excavation? Rumors of a remarkable discovery he wants to investigate?”

“I must admit I can’t think of anything that would be so enticing he would ignore my express orders,” I replied. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” Emerson demanded.

“Nothing.” I had been seized by a hideous foreboding, of the sort that often seizes me. Emerson had strictly forbidden me to mention them, since he does not believe in forebodings of any variety.

The others-except for Daoud, who only spoke when he had something sensible to say-had not remained silent. Speculation ranged from “He broke a leg doing something idiotic and is afraid to admit it,” to “Mr. Reisner has come across a find so important he needs Ramses to stay.”

“Then why didn’t Reisner write and tell me so?” Emerson demanded.

The answer to that was obvious, but I was the only one who had the fortitude to state it aloud. “Because he doesn’t want you dashing off to Samaria and interfering with his work.”

“Bah,” said Emerson indignantly. “I never interfere.”

“This is a waste of time,” Nefret said. “Professor, please let me see the bit of string and the cloth.”

Emerson handed them over. “I regret to inform you, Nefret, that the string is nothing out of the ordinary and the knot is not a unique variety only employed by members of a single, unusual profession. As for the cloth-”

Nefret smoothed it out on the table, pushing aside a platter of bread and a dish of hummus. It was a small square, approximately six inches on a side.

“What do you see?” Selim asked excitedly. “Is there writing? Is that a bloodstain?”

“No.” Nefret continued to stare at the cloth. “Just dirt. But there is one interesting thing about it.”

“I don’t see anything,” Emerson said.

“It’s a woman’s handkerchief.” Nefret handed it to me. “Does that suggest a possible reason for Ramses’s being delayed?”

I had heard of blazing eyes but had always believed that was a literary metaphor. Perhaps it was only the reflection of the candle-flame in her blue orbs.

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

They had only been traveling a short time before Ramses was inclined to regret he had not accepted the offer of a sleeping potion. The equipage was going at a good clip, and although the bedding cushioned him to some extent, he was being thrown from side to side. At least he had been left alone. He braced his feet against the side of the yaila, squirmed into a slightly more comfortable position, and forced himself to go over that extraordinary conversation in minute detail.

He had a fairly good idea now who Mansur was-or rather, what he was. He had heard that particular accent before, from a pair of Indian students he had met at university when he spent a term brushing up on his classical Greek. Languages were his chief interest and his specialty; he had cultivated the two young men in the hope of learning something of their native tongue. Most Indians were Hindus, but there was a sizable Moslem population too, particularly in the northwest provinces. It really didn’t matter whether Mansur had been born Moslem or had converted. What mattered was that the plot, whatever the hell it was, might extend beyond the Ottoman territories. India was the jewel in the crown, the pride of the empire. If there was even a slight possibility of an uprising in India, the War Office would go off its collective head. Memories of the Mutiny of 1857, when thousands of British and Europeans were slaughtered, still haunted the nightmares of government officials. That catastrophe had been kindled by a stupid, unnecessary affront to the religious sensibilities of the Indian troops.